


Convince Me.

by panicky_pancakes



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gay Newsies, M/M, sprace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicky_pancakes/pseuds/panicky_pancakes
Summary: Brooklyn's opted out of the strike. Spot has his reasons, but when Racetrack Higgins shows up to convince him otherwise, Spot's got three days to make a decision. Once the decision is made, who knows? If he says yes, he and the rest of Brooklyn strike with the Manhattan boys. If he says no...
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	1. Working Borough

**Author's Note:**

> I know the Next Door AU's not finished yet but this idea Came To Me and now it's a reality. Enjoy! (Lucky and Clicks are both OCs, Clicks belongs to @theworldisyaerster1 on tumblr.)

Spot contemplated the offer. After Kelly and the other boy had been  _ gently _ shown out of Brooklyn by Hotshot, Spot was left alone in the lodging house to consider it. He knew why they were striking, of course - everyone did. Was it worth the risk to join them? Could he afford all the littles losing their jobs and losing the only source of food they had?

He let out a sigh.  _ Why did I ever let ‘em have me as leader? _ he thought to himself, shaking his head. Spot was barely sixteen, his birthday having passed just last week. How was he cut out to lead an entire borough?

“Hey, Spottie,” a voice said quietly behind him. Jumping around, he saw one of the other Brooklyn newsies, Lucky, coming through the doorway.

“Hi, Lucky,” he greeted. Spot and Lucky had been friends since before Spot had been Brooklyn’s leader, and Spot remembered that she hated conflict, that she was too scared of loud voices and people fighting to even sell near Sheepshead. Just another reason to keep Brooklyn out of the strike.

“Heard you was thinkin’ about strikin’,” she muttered, picking at her suspenders.

“How’d you hear that?” Spot asked absently. “An’ if you heard it, you should know I ain’t decided yet.”

“Hotshot told me on his way out,” Lucky admitted, not meeting Spot’s eyes. She rarely met anyone’s eyes, but she was usually more comfortable around Spot. The fact that she was acting this way around him… Spot knew something was up.

“Hey, listen,” Spot said quietly. Lucky was like a sister to him, and if she was putting up all of these barriers again after  _ years _ of slowly putting them down, she had to be supremely uncomfortable with the idea. “If none of you wanna strike, we won’t strike,” he confirmed, patting her on the back.

“Really?”

“We’ll talk about it together later. But right now, Brooklyn’s a workin’ borough.”

Lucky smiled, and her previously pallid face darkened back to its regular brown. “Thanks, Spot. I’ll tell the others.” She stood to leave.

“Hey, Lucks, could ya grab one of the runners so we can send a message to ‘Hattan?” Spot called after her as she left. She nodded, shutting the door behind her.

“Tell ‘em that we ain’t strikin’,” Spot told the runner before she could leave. “And that most of the other boroughs will probably follow suit.”

The runner nodded, sprinting off down the street in the late afternoon sun. As he stood on the street corner Spot thought about what would become of the Manhattan boys. Would the strike even work? Or would the scabbers and the Delanceys snuff out the fearless Jack Kelly?

Spot wasn’t fearless. He was, in fact, full of fear. Fear for the littles, fear for his friends, even sometimes for himself. He wondered to himself if Jack Kelly  _ was _ indeed fearless, or if, like Spot, it was something of a front. Either way, he was braver than him, starting this strike.

The sun was sinking low now, shining through the buildings in thick golden bars. Spot’s earnings that day had been meagre - he wouldn’t eat that night. He could save what he had and buy a loaf of bread tomorrow to give the littles and take a piece for himself, and he could do without food for twenty-four hours.

“They didn’t like it,” the runner said when she came back from delivering the message, the sun now gone from the sky. “At all.”

“I don’t care,” Spot replied, “they can strike on their own. Thanks for deliverin’.”

It was late by the time all the littles were asleep. Spot sat awake, thinking about the strike, and about the Manhattan newsies. Striking was probably the right thing to do in general, but he knew so many people who didn’t want to strike - Lucky, Hotshot, Carrot Top… the list went on. The right thing for the borough had to be different than the right thing for New York. Right?

Spot jolted awake, bright sun streaming into his eyes. His heart jumped as he remembered how much selling time he must have lost by oversleeping before he realized that it was Sunday. Nobody bought papes on Sundays, so nobody  _ sold _ papes on Sundays.

“Hey, boss, someone’s here to see ya!” a newsie named Clicks called on his way past where Spot had fallen asleep.

“Who?” Spot grumbled, voice still raspy with sleep.

“Dunno,” Clicks said. “He’s tall. Got blond hair.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, he’s here.”

Spot stumbled down the stairs of the lodging house, yawning. He made an attempt to put his hair into a presentable position and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. When he opened the door, the ‘Hattan boy was standing outside waiting for him.

“And who are you?” Spot asked gruffly, frowning at the taller boy.

“Racetrack Higgins,” he said, spitting in his hand and holding it out. Spot spat and took it.

“Did Kelly send you, then?” Spot leaned against the doorway.

“Not exactly,” Racetrack sighed, taking a drag on the cigar he held in his mouth.

Spot was confused. Hadn’t Brooklyn  _ just _ told Manhattan that they weren’t striking? Why Jack would send a runner now, when they had made their stance clear, Spot didn’t know. He frowned and cocked his head to the side.

“Uh, Jack didn’t send me,” he explained, rocking from foot to foot.

“So why’d ya come?”

“To convince you to join the strike,” Racetrack blurted suddenly.

“Ain’t happenin’,” Spot scoffed, trying to shut the door. The other boy’s foot stopped him.

“What can I do? You  _ gotta _ join the strike,” he pleaded. Spot didn’t know him, though he guessed pleading wasn’t usually how Racetrack operated. Boy did he feel special.

“Listen, Racetrack--”

“--Most folks call me Race.”

“Okay, Race,” Spot corrected himself. “I’ll make you a deal.” What deal? Spot had no idea what was coming out of his own mouth. He decided to go with it. “If you can convince me by Tuesday mornin’ that Brooklyn should strike, we’ll strike.”

“Really?”

“Do your worst, Higgins.”

For the rest of the day, Race sort of hung around Spot while he did his Sunday activities (none of which involved going to church). He cleared up the lodging house a little bit like he did every week, only this time he was accompanied by a certain energetic Manhattan newsie.

“So this is what the Brooklyn boys do on Sundays,” Race mused, glancing around at the littles, who were all immersed in their own games of make believe.

“Depends,” Spot laughed, watching two of the youngest newsies fall into a pile of giggles. “But yeah, most days.”

“Why’d you choose not to strike?” Race blew a smoke ring wider than Spot’s head.

“Bunch o’ folks told me they didn’t want to,” Spot answered truthfully. “For their own reasons.”

“Huh. So why’d you make this deal?”

“You got a lotta questions, Race. If I’m bein’ honest--” Spot coughed as he inhaled a bit too much of Race’s cigar smoke.

“Sorry.”

“I been wonderin’ if maybe strikin’ is better than not,” Spot continued, clearing his throat. “I can’t just start striking’ though. If I cave, I’ll look weak.”

“Ya won’t. You’re Spot Conlon.”

“Ah, come off it!”

“No, really!” Race exclaimed, “I’s serious! Doncha know how the rest of New York talks about ya? How newsies like me think about ya?”

“An’ how’s that?” Spot asked, half-joking now. Race had to be joking, too.

“Youse tough,” Race began, counting on his long, slender fingers. “Strong, cool, all of that.”

“And?” Spot grinned.

“Good leader, good lookin’--” Race cut himself off and went a bit pink.

Spot questioned for a second if the other boy was serious. Nobody had  _ ever _ told Spot that, much less a ‘Hattan boy with flame-blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. He thought about taking it to heart but decided to write it off. Everything always had to be a joke or a threat, that was how Spot ran it.

“You’re just tryin’ to soften me up!” Spot accused, slapping Race’s hat down over his eyes.

“Am not!”

Suddenly, Spot and Race were acting like the littles who were playing around them, stealing each other’s hats and yelling insults. Spot had never made a friend so fast, and perhaps it was because of the circumstances. Or, Race was only acting like this to get Brooklyn to strike. Either way, Spot felt better than he had in a while. 

It helped that Race was cute. But that wasn’t important.

“So did I convince you today?”

The clock had ticked away all of Sunday’s hours, bringing with it the air of dread mixed with excitement that only happens on a Sunday night. Race and Spot sat on the Brooklyn lodging house’s fire escape watching the coppers do their nightly rounds, the smell of smoke decidedly missing from the air around them after Race had finished his second cigar that afternoon.

“Not today,” Spot said, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I’s sellin’ tomorrow!”

“So’m I. Guess you’re gonna have to sell in Brooklyn tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Race fidgeted with his hands. He was always moving, Spot noticed, eyes always darting around or hands always doing something. 

Spot realized he was staring at Race’s hands at the same time he did, and they locked eyes for a moment before Race’s face split into a grin. He smiled like he knew something Spot didn’t, like there was a hilarious joke he couldn’t understand. Spot wanted to know what he knew, wanted to be in on the joke. 

“See you tomorrow, then,” Race said while standing up. “An’ I  _ will _ convince you.”

“We’ll see.”


	2. Drawn Daydream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's different in Brooklyn. The people, the procedures... but Race has to sell there if he has any hope of convincing Spot to strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating sooner, low-key forgot about this story. Gonna have another AU up pretty soon, so keep an eye on my profile!

“Where was you, Racer?”

“Brooklyn,” Race answered, flopping down on his bunk.

“Why Brooklyn?” Mush asked, not looking up from the book he was reading.

“Why not?” Race just didn’t want to talk about it. If the other newsies knew he was desperately clinging onto Brooklyn joining the strike, they’d ask him why. Then he’d have to explain that his family had lived in Brooklyn when he was small, and that he and his siblings had been separated when Race was two. He didn’t even remember them. There were other reasons, of course. The strike was important to him and he wanted it to succeed, finding his siblings was just… a plus.

And Spot was an okay guy, too. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to spend more time around Brooklyn’s leader.

“Okay, grumpy,” Crutchie laughed from his own bunk. “You don’t have to tell us.”

Race sighed and pulled off his shoes. The walk back from Brooklyn had been long, even in the summer air. His shoes, worn and decaying, weren’t holding up as well as they used to. Selling all day in the same shoes, six days a week, gave them a beaten, soft feel that brand-new shoes didn’t have, a kind of homey feel which was illustrated by the toe-shaped divots on the inside of the boot and the curly laces that always came undone. They didn’t blister like new shoes would, but the soles, all but paper-thin, provided little protection from the hard pavement, and the hole in the toe showed Race’s frayed socks. Before the strike had begun, the pape price was already too high to save enough for new laces, much less new shoes, and now that there was literally no money to spare between the newsies? Race could forget buying a new pair of shoes at least until wintertime.

“Well, we’re screwed,” Jack groaned, walking into the older boys’ bunk room. “None of the other boroughs’re gonna join us unless Brooklyn does.”

“I might have Brooklyn with us by Tuesday,” Race blurted suddenly. He’d wanted to keep the deal a secret but he hated seeing his friends so… hopeless. “Depends.”

“Really?” Albert asked, eyes hopeful. “How?”

“I got my ways,” Race teased while lighting another cigar. “You’ll see.”

“Jesus,” Mush snorted. “Youse all about the mysteriosity tonight, huh?”

“You got it, Mushy.”

Everything was different. The Brooklyn boys started selling thirty minutes later than the Manhattan newsies. The gate was made of a metal that had once been copper but now shone a bright patina green, certainly  _ not _ the wrought iron gates of the Manhattan circulation gate. The faces weren’t familiar, the other newsies didn’t talk to him, didn’t joke around with him like Albert or Finch would have. He missed his home. But the strike was important. So was finding his family. So was talking to Spot, though he hated to admit it, because convincing Spot was the path to the strike.

“You sellin’, then?”

Race turned around to see a redheaded newsie of around fourteen standing behind him, arms crossed. Blue eyes similar to his own glared up at him from beneath her cap, which held a mass of rusty curls tucked underneath it. Her jaw, slightly pointed but still rounded by childhood, was jutted out at him in an attempt to look tougher.

“Yeah, well what’s it to ya?” Race matched her toughness, knitting his eyebrows into a frown.

“Get in line, ‘Hattan,” the girl spat, shaking her head with disgust.  _ Borough-to-borough wars’re real _ , Race thought to himself with clarity,  _ prime example right here in front a’ me. _

“And who are you to be given’ me orders?” he questioned as he got in line behind the Brooklyn girl. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Carrot Top,” she answered. 

“No last name?”

“Nope.”

“Thought you were strikin’!” Spot exclaimed when Race found him selling on the corner.

“Sellin’ in Brooklyn ain’t no better than not sellin’ at all,” Race joked, “so I picked sellin’.”

Spot smiled in a surprised sort of way and looked at Race with bright eyes. “So you’ll convince me  _ while _ youse is followin’ me all around?”

“That’s the plan.”

The sun had climbed high in the sky when Spot and Race took a break for ‘lunch’ - it wasn’t exactly lunch because neither of them had any food. People took pity on the littles and gave them food around this time, but if you were above twelve or thirteen you could forget free handouts.

“So do your job.” Spot said after they’d spent some time sitting under the eaves of an abandoned deli.

“Huh?”

“Why,” Spot sighed, absently walking two of his fingers up his own arm like legs and hopping them onto Race’s, “should Brooklyn join the strike?”

“Oh, well, there’s a bunch of reasons,” Race began. “Reason one being it’ll help  _ so _ many kids. More than just Brooklyn's kids.”

The only reason Race could give Spot had just come out of his mouth, yet Spot seemed to believe he had more to say, giving him a nod to continue.

“I, uh…” he scrambled for words, sentences falling haphazardly into place as he spoke. “Also!” he blurted.

“‘Also’?” Spot mimicked with a smirk.

“Yes,  _ also _ ,” Race said, mildly offended. “It’d benefit you too. C’mon, what’s two weeks of a strike compared to forever with higher prices?”

“You just made that up now,” Spot accused, elbowing Race in the ribs.

“Did not!”

The two laughed together before falling into a comfortable silence, watching the pedestrians pass by.

In the shade of the eaves, with the noonday sun beating on the pavement, strange shadows had settled on Spot’s face, giving it almost a drawn look, like a quick sketch scribbled in the margins of a newspaper or on the front page of a well-worn novel. Spot Conlon, this strange pencil-etch of a boy sitting beside him, was a work of art Race could never begin to understand. Like an abstract painting, perhaps there were people who knew Spot’s purpose and meaning, but as someone who had only been around him for a short time, the lines and shading that made up Brooklyn’s leader stood as a mystery to Race.

“Even if you did make it up,” Spot said thoughtfully, breaking the silence, “it’s a decent reason.”

“You rethinkin’?”

“Maybe,” Spot murmured. “I dunno.”

“Well, look,” Race started, “whatever you choose to do, that’s fine. But think about it in the long run.”

The walk back to Manhattan wasn’t anything. But it was  _ something _ , too, just what it was Race couldn’t place. The stars, especially clear tonight, stretched above him in their milky river, shimmering like sugar on dyed silk. Thoughts scrabbled through Race’s brain at unseemly speeds, only halting momentarily when they crashed together, and even then they kept sprinting. Fragments of thoughts and ideas would spark up like a bolt of lighting, and be gone just as fast as they came. Every once in a while, one of these thoughts would involve a certain Brooklyn newsie, but these would leave even faster. The strike, though it usually sat at the forefront of his mind, was further away than the stars above him, leaving only the wistful, fantastical, and self-indulgent thoughts behind, the kind that he usually saved for daydreams.

If this was a daydream, it was very, very strange.


	3. Shit Happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decision time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... have a lot to say for myself. First, sorry for not uploading for a LONG time. And if you follow(ed) me on Tumblr, you should know that I won't be going back there for a long time. I only just got my AO3 back, and if you're one of my Tumblr friends who's tried to message me on discord, I'm sorry but I can't be there either anymore. I miss you every day! Please enjoy this chapter and know that I'll be posting more writing very soon!

“We _have_ to!”

“Shut your mouth, we do not!”

“Something has to be done!”

The clamour of voices bombarded Spot, leaving his ears ringing once the room full of Brooklyn newsies finally quieted down. Taking off his hat, Spot shuffled his foot a little but kept his eyes on the other newsies. If there was one thing Spot Conlon could do, it was hold people’s attention.

“Listen,” Spot said, “I still haven’t made a decision—”

“—make one, then!” Hotshot interjected, earning him a few mutters of agreement. “How hard can it be?”

“Not easy,” he retorted. “Look, a fella from Manhattan has been tryin’ to convince me these last couple days. If he can’t do it, we’ll keep working.” He signed along as he spoke for Lucky’s benefit, remembering that she was deaf in one ear. “Can anyone in here give me other good reasons for striking?”

Not a word.

“Okay. Go to the gate tomorrow, as per norm.”

“As… what?” somebody asked.

“Do what you usually do,” Spot sighed, exasperated. “Sell some papes.”

Stepping out onto the rusty fire escape felt like finally being allowed to breathe oxygen instead of smoke. Spot had never liked small spaces full of people. In fact, sometimes he didn’t like being around people at all. Always clearest when he was alone, his mind could be fickle in the way its gears turned — or didn’t turn. As he began to think with more clarity, he realized that the other newsies were just as scared as he was, only they didn’t have an entire borough to look after as well as themselves.

“What am I _doing?_ ” he asked himself with a small shake of his head. The price had been jacked up for the second time just that morning, and the high cost of newspapers was beginning to take its toll on the people Spot knew. With less money to buy food, many of the Brooklyn newsies were becoming more like hungry street dogs; skin and bones, with a wild, starved look in their eyes.

A low growl from Spot’s own stomach merely caused him to lean further towards joining Manhattan in the strike. The other boroughs, who he knew were waiting on what he would do, probably were having the same problems. It hit him then just how many kids he was affecting by being as indecisive as he was.

Suddenly, a clang from below him on the fire escape startled Spot out of his thoughts. Through the crisscross of the metal bars, he could see a tall blond boy making his way up the rickety steps. Race.

“ _What are you doing here?_ ” Spot hissed, quashing the tiny part of him that was truly glad to see the other newsie.

“Got some news,” Race told him when he reached him. “There’s gonna be a rally outside the _World_ tomorrow morning. You wanna show your support, show up.”

“I don’t…”

“God, Spot, I need you to decide,” Race said, rubbing the bridge of his crooked nose. “Tomorrow’s… all or nothin’, probably. I mean, we got Crutchie in the Refuge, I ain’t eaten in a week…”

Spot turned his eyes out to the city in front of him, away from Race. “Didn’t know you had a guy in the Refuge. Sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah, well. We needed backup. We didn’t have it. Shit happens.”

Was Race… angry with him?

“Look—” Spot started.

“—no, _you_ look. I’m tired of this, Spot, you can’t keep pretending—”

Spot cut him off. “—I was _about_ to agree with you and join the strike,” he spat, “but it seems you weren’t listening to me.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” he said quietly, feeling bad. “’M sorry. We’ll be there.”

“You will?” Race’s blue eyes were suddenly charged like fire, full of a hopeful excitement so different from the anger that had been there moments before. “Oh my God, I could kiss you!”

Spot felt his cheeks grow hot. “You can. If you’d like.”

“Huh? No, it’s an expression—”

The kiss was fast, Spot’s lips barely touching Race’s before he pulled back, shocked at himself. Never before had he been so impulsive; Spot was known for carefully calculating his choices, almost to a fault. Often to a fault.

“If you apologize, I’m gonna punch you,” Racetrack whispered. “See you tomorrow, Spot.”

As Race turned to go back down the stairs and Spot pushed the window up so he could go inside, both boys looked back at each other for a split second before each going their separate ways.

“Listen up!”

Nobody listened. Spot tried again. “Hey!”

Finally, heads turned in his direction, and people stopped getting ready for bed to hear what he had to say.

“As of right now, Brooklyn is striking,” Spot told them. “Tomorrow morning, you all need to be ready to go by sunup. There’ll be a rally outside the _World_ , and we’re goin’ to show our support for Manhattan. Understand?”

Murmuring their agreements and answers, along with a few sidelong glares at Spot from some, the Brooklyn newsies went back to what they’d been doing, save for Lucky, who came over to sit on Spot’s bunk.

“You promised,” she said. “I remember.”

“How many days has it been since you ate, Lucks?” Spot asked her. “I can see your ribs, you know.”

“…six,” Lucky admitted, “but…”

“We’re gonna get you some food soon’s we get into Manhattan tomorrow,” he promised. “The strike’ll be good for you, okay?”

Lucky folded her arms.

“Hey, listen,” Spot said off her look, “I wasn’t sure at first either. But it’s better than starving as they keep hiking up the price.”

“I guess.”

Spot hung up his hat, expecting Lucky to leave and go to her own bed, but she did not. “You think that boy’s pretty, don’t you?”

This caught Spot off guard. Was he that obvious? If half-deaf, not yet thirteen-year-old Lucky could figure it out, how many other people had?

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. I’m just wondering.”

“Lucky,” he began, “even if I did, it wouldn’t change my decision… much. From the moment I wake up to when I go to sleep, the first thing I’m worried about is if all youse is gonna eat, or sell enough papes… I’m my last priority,” Spot admitted to himself as well as to Lucky.

“Maybe that’s not so good,” she said, tilting her head a little.

“Maybe not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? What do you think will happen next? I'm about 90% sure you won't see what's coming...


	4. One More Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoo boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >>>TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER<<<  
> If you are triggered by violence of any kind, including depictions of blood, you can skip this chapter and ask me to recap it for you in the comment section.
> 
> Also: Happy New Year!! Hope this chapter is to your liking :) sorry it's so short

“Here’s a list of every Brooklyn newsie joining the strike,” Spot told Race, handing him a repurposed newspaper page with jagged handwriting scrawled across it. The paper was rough in Race’s hands, and when he looked at his fingers, he saw graphite smudges where he’d held it.

“Thanks.” Race’s eyes scanned the list, past names he recognized and ones he did not. Folding it back up without really taking in its contents, he stuffed the paper into his back pocket.

The July morning air was chilly, but not quite as much as it would have been in September or June. The sun had not quite risen yet, and newsies from Brooklyn and Manhattan alike sat around outside the _World_ waiting for the day to begin and the strike to truly commence. A few boys shared a single cup of coffee contained in a tin can, and two little girls played hopscotch using the bricks as lines, but in general the newsies were quiet.

“Do you want to talk about…” Spot trailed off, fidgeting with one of his suspender clasps, eyes darting around the slowly lightening square.

“Maybe not right now,” Race sighed, looking around for Jack. Where was he? “We’s missing a couple guys.”

“So’re we. Hope Jack gets here soon.”

Exhausted after the events of the rally, Race took the long walk back to Manhattan’s Lodging House alone, kicking a small rock with his foot as he went. He’d gone with Spot, Hotshot, and Specs to a bar between Brooklyn and Manhattan that didn’t care as much about its sixteen-year-old patrons. Now he was about halfway home, the streets quiet and empty.

“Well, what is that _unpleasant aroma_?”

Race knew that voice. He whipped around to see Oscar and Morris Delancey. Great.

“Oscar, Morris, hey,” he said, trying to keep a fair bit of distance between himself and the twins. “Good seein’ youse, how’re things?”

“Not so good,” one of them said; it was hard to tell in the dark which was which. “Seems to me we’re out of a job as of today.”

Race had been slowly walking backwards, but he startled as his back hit a brick wall. “Listen, fellas—”

A sharp hit to his jaw cut him off, and Race tasted blood almost immediately.

“Poor little Racetrack,” the brother he thought was Oscar sneered. “All by himself. Be a shame if one a’ Jack Kelly’s pals was found dead in the morning, wouldn’t it?”

Race felt a small, angry flame grow in his gut. He was tired of these two. “Fuck off,” he hissed, spitting blood as he spoke.

Another punch to his stomach left Racetrack gasping for breath, but through the aching sting he managed to stomp as hard as he could on a foot — he didn’t know _whose_ foot, but a shout of pain let him know he’d made contact.

A few minutes later, Race was left barely standing, hardly able to speak, let alone move. He had to get somewhere. He ran through the rough map of the streets in his mind and concluded that the Brooklyn Lodging House was closer than home. Shifting his body into a position where he could stand, Race began to take slow, shuffling steps. Each time he nearly screamed; some small part of his mind would say _one more step_. _One more step_ and you’ll be somewhere safe.

There were a lot of steps.

Race woke up to a pair of almond-shaped eyes staring at him. He stared back.

“Hi,” he croaked, surprised at the weak sound of his own voice.

“She can’t hear you,” Spot said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “This is Lucky. She’s, uh, she’s deaf.”

Lucky’s dark brown skin starkly contrasted her (relatively) clean white shirt, and her thick black braids reached the small of her back. About thirteen, she was almost as tall as Spot.

“Oh.” Race felt guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Lucky said in a halting sort of way. “I can read lips alright.”

“Lucky,” Spot started, signing with his hands so quickly Race couldn’t take it in, “can you go?”

She nodded.

“I was surprised to see you last night,” Spot told him once Lucky had shut the door. “What happened?”

“The Delanceys,” Race coughed. “Found me.”

“Well, you were lucky you got here in time. You’ll be fine, we managed to rustle up some aspirin.”

“Aspirin?” Trying to think clearly was like trying to swim through a sea of cotton — webby, soft, and a little sleepy.

“Some new stuff from Germany,” Spot explained, “helps take pain away. Seems to work pretty well.”

Surprisingly, Race was able to sit up with some ease. “Thanks,” he said with a small grimace. “’M sorry about comin’ here last night.” He knew he shouldn’t address it. Who would? People were jailed for less. “I wondered if I should have,” he continued, “after… after what happened.” Race waited in the uncomfortable quiet that followed.

“No, you didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” Spot reassured him without meeting his eyes. “I don’t hold it against you.”

“You talk like you regret it.”

There it was again; Spot became less like a person in his silence and more like a sketch, or perhaps a specter. Ghostly, quiet, sort of empty in a way. Race wondered if Spot knew he did this, or if it was instinctive, but either way it could not go unnoticed.

“You know, you get different when you’re afraid,” Race blurted, speaking words he rarely even thought. Spot Conlon, Brooklyn’s leader, afraid? The idea was unheard of. Nevertheless, some part of him urged him to continue. “All quiet and weird, like a part of you’s turned into a ghost.”

“Do I?”

“You do. I just want to know,” Race said, clearing his throat a little, “what it is about me that scares you so bad.”

Spot sighed. Taking off his hat, he ran his hand through his dark brown waves, perhaps to attempt to distract Race (or himself) from the fact that his hands were shaking slightly. “You’re the first person to ever tell me I look scared,” he whispered, voice crackling a little. “Guess most people don’t see it.”

Another moment of nearly unbearable silence. Race wondered how many more of these moments he would have to endure.

“Hey, do you mind if I sleep here for an hour or so?” Race asked, trying to undercut the tension and sever the conversation before it got worse.

“No, go ahead,” Spot said, standing to leave. Before he reached the door, he turned around. “Racer, you scare me because…” he paused. “You scare me because of how much you’re able to be _yourself_ , and it’s… it’s amazing. I really, really like it. Well, not _it_ , more like _you_.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot be found on Tumblr anymore but you can find me on Pinterest @singingbadlybutstillsinging, on Wattpad @Silver_Snake_Pen and on Spotify at https://open.spotify.com/user/qxdlqwfgzesebsxwkxy9fx25w?si=hksaAHJZQyKB3mf6M7Xuig
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! What do you think will happen next?


	5. Picture Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A picture show very nearly leads Spot to a realization... very nearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're idiots, your honour.

The sun did not stay out quite as long now that the hot, dry days of July had faded into the slightly cooler August weeks. Soon the leaves would begin to fall from the trees and the air would become crisp, but for now, summertime had its grip around New York City.

In Brooklyn, the newsies had fallen back into a cycle of somewhat normalcy, each morning essentially the same as the last. However, one change that Spot was sure had been felt across the city, was that they had food. And not just the essentials; the newsies were able to keep themselves healthier than they had ever been, thanks to the lowered paper prices.

Yet even with the new Eden that was the New York newspaper industry, Spot felt like something was missing. Being the leader of Brooklyn had, of course, its perks, but Spot had next to no friends – a fact he had become increasingly aware of. Sure, he saw Race when he could, but that was different… or, at least, a tiny part of his brain _wanted_ it to be.

While the newspaper business chugged on, peddling the news of the day, the newsboys of New York had watched a brand-new cinema being built in Manhattan. A large, colourfully printed banner hung outside proclaimed that it would be open on August fifteenth, and another advertised its cheap rates, a fact that made the newsies all the more excited.

“You see that new cinema on fifth?” Race asked Spot one day as they ate lunch in the shade – Race often made the trek across the Brooklyn Bridge to eat with Spot, or vice versa.

“Yeah, looks nice,” Spot replied with half a mouthful of bread, “cheap, too.”

“Well in a couple a’ days it’ll be open,” he continued, “and me and some of the guys are gonna go see a picture. You should come.”

“I _should?_ ”

“Ain’t that what I said?” Race smiled at Spot.

Race had a way of stretching out and relaxing in an almost catlike fashion, long, skinny limbs folded over each other gracefully. This starkly contrasted Spot’s own short, stocky body, a stature he’d been made fun of for as a child.

“Okay,” Spot said, surprised at himself. “Friday, right?”

“Friday.”

The sun had just started to set when Spot arrived at the cinema, and Race and the others were shadows on the street corner in the fading light. However, the silhouettes moved with the same amount of character they spoke with, and watching as he walked, Spot deduced that he and Race would be seeing the picture show with Jack Kelly, Davey Jacobs, and Mush Meyers. _Not a bad crowd,_ he thought to himself as he approached, _could be worse._

“Hey, Spot!” Mush exclaimed with a wide grin. “Great to see you!”

“Hi, Mush. Hey everybody.”

A collective bunch of _hi_ ’s could be heard around the group of five. Race stepped out from behind Davey and clapped Spot on the shoulder. “Spottie, you came.”

“I did,” Spot confirmed, feeling slightly out of place among the Manhattan newsies. Looking up at Race’s face, he noticed that the taller boy almost looked surprised. “You thought I wouldn’t,” he realized aloud.

“Well…” Race trailed off, eyes flashing aside for a moment. “You seemed kinda unsure about it all,” he explained, “but, hey. At least you came.”

Apprehension began to creep at the corners of Spot’s brain, but he pushed it away. _Not today, brain,_ he told himself. With a sudden bout of confidence, he threw an arm around Race and smiled. “I did indeed, Higgins,” he said, “and you must be damn glad to see me, huh?”

Race looked away again, but this time it seemed to be for a different reason (but what reason, Spot did not know). His cheeks were also slightly pink. “Um. Well. You’s my friend. So.”

“Hey,” Davey interjected off a look from Jack, “we should go inside. The picture’s about to start.”

“Uh, yeah, good idea, Davey,” Race said, taking Spot’s arm off himself somewhat gingerly.

Sitting in the cinema for the duration of the ten-minute moving picture felt like an hour to Spot. Race shifted and fidgeted during the entire thing, switching his legs around and twiddling his thumbs. After about five minutes, Race, who was sat next to Spot, started to tap his fingers on the seat. It went on for a little while before Spot, unable to focus on the screen with the rhythmic tapping beside him, slowly reached out a hand and grabbed Race’s tapping hand.

“Could you stop?” he whispered. “Just for now. I know it ain’t easy.”

Race glanced at him in the dark room. “Yeah.”

Spot did not move his hand for a few seconds, keeping his fingers interlocked with Race’s for just a moment before letting go.

On the screen, the grey film flicked through footage of a little boy riding a bicycle down a street, a flock of birds following him. There was no music – Spot had always wondered why they couldn’t put music beside moving pictures, but he figured it wasn’t his job to ask. His mind wandered idly as he watched the picture, questioning how they got the birds to fly in such a straight line when they filmed it.

Somebody sitting behind Spot cleared his throat, making him jump just a little. He remembered suddenly being a small boy, not much older than the boy riding the bike in the moving picture. He’d done time in the Refuge at ten years old, and he distinctly recalled the sound of Snyder clearing his throat all through the night while Spot tried to sleep. That sound lived in his mind still, even nearly seven years later.

The picture show ended and the clamour of people standing up and speaking to each other replaced the quiet. Grabbing his hat from under his seat, Spot followed Mush out of their seating row, Race walking behind him. As they and the rest of the crowd emerged into the evening air after five minutes of jostling through the cinema’s lobby, Spot took a deep breath. He’d be damned if he knew what was going on in the world, or even in his own mind, but at least there was some fresh air in his lungs.

“Decent picture, huh?” Jack asked him as they walked towards Jacobi’s Deli, “I liked the birds.”

“Me, too,” Davey said as the group paused before crossing the street, “it was good quality.”

After a glass of seltzer in Jacobi’s, the newsies decided to go their separate ways for the evening. Spot began to turn towards the Brooklyn Bridge just as the last streetlamp on the boulevard lit up.

“Hey,” Race called after him, “I’ll walk with you.”

“Really?” Spot wondered why he’d offered – it wasn’t exactly a short walk back to Brooklyn. “Okay.”

They walked in silence for a while.

In a desperate scramble for conversation to fill the void, Spot said, “stars’re bright tonight.” They were, it was true, but the stars weren’t something he often gave much thought.

“Yeah,” Race agreed quietly, looking up while continuing walking. “You know, most of those constellations get their names from Greek n’ Roman gods and myths.”

Spot did a double-take. “I didn’t know you liked stars,” he said while trying to keep most of the surprise out of his voice.

“Oh, for sure.” Race grinned. “I had this book when I was a kid, this huge leather-bound number with illustrations and everything. I must’ve read it a million times.”

“Really?” Spot laughed a little, amused at the image of a tiny Racetrack trying to read a book as big as he was. “So tell me,” he said, “what’s that constellation?”

“Well, that’s Orion,” Race began, “and he’s got that big belt, right, and his…” he trailed off. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I was about to… talk. A lot. People don’t like it when I tell them too much at once,” he said. “I learned that the hard way.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Spot told him. “I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Go on, Higgins.”

As Race continued to talk, Spot watched him. There was something about the way Race’s eyes lit up and his whole face animated that drew Spot in. He wanted to listen to him talk forever – and at the speed Race was talking, he probably could.

At that moment, listening to Race was all that mattered.

But why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a playlist for this fic now! I'll keep adding to it as the story goes on. LINK: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1vSOo5mrLyOcR98aYXcBu7?si=VxANDZApR1-4OE7kZAhxJA


	6. Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!TRIGGER WARNING!!  
> Big trigger warning for:  
> \- Guns, gunshots, gun wounds  
> \- Mild blood description  
> \- Semi-violent protesting

A regular Saturday would have had Tenth Avenue Square bustling with shoppers and people out on the town. There were often stalls selling their wares, lengths of cotton and jars of jam on display for those with money to buy.

But not this Saturday.

As Race and Spot attempted to make their way through the throngs of people, Race realized that this crowd was not full of shoppers.

“Spot,” he called, raising his voice over the sound of the crowd. “This ain’t normal.”

“No, it ain’t,” Spot agreed, “I don’t know what’s happening.” A chant began towards the front of the gathering, but Race couldn’t make out what they were saying. The grey clouds that hung over the city that morning seemed to grow in weight, biding their time before they opened up.

“I think it’s a protest.”

“You think?” Spot said, dodging a man swinging a large, hand-painted picket sign. “I dunno, seems to me they’re about to break into song.”

“Funny,” Race deadpanned before nearly tripping over a box full of bullets on the ground.

Looking around, Race could see the angry faces of the protesters, their rhythmic chant ringing in his ears. They began to shout louder, fists pumping in the air. Race turned around to ask Spot if he knew why they were protesting, but he could only see the top of his hat. He tried to push past a man to get back to Spot, but surprisingly, the man pushed back.

“Watch yourself, beanpole,” the man said. His bushy beard had a chip of wood caught in it, and Race focused on it instead of the man’s face.

There were two routes he debated upon.

One, the route he knew would have been chosen by so many of his friends, would have been to stand up, to match the man’s attitude. The other (and probably safer) route would be to apologize, move on, and get back to Spot. Race weighed them for a split second before deciding.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said calmly. “I didn’t see you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Listen, sir.” Race had never called anyone ‘sir’ in his life. “I’m just trying to find my—my friend. I lost him in the crowd.”

“You protesting?” Race got the impression that this man’s vocabulary was not the most impressive. But who was he to judge? He couldn’t even spell the word _oyster_.

“No.”

The man folded his arms across his chest. “Run along then, kid, ‘fore you miss the pony rides,” he snorted, turning back to the protest.

Anger surged through Race. He debated once again what to do. He could leave the man and go find Spot – God only knew where he had gone – or he could stand up for himself.

The latter won out once again.

“I ain’t no kid!” he said to the bearded man. “I had a strike of my own this summer.”

The man turned on his heel. “So you’re one of those newsboys.”

“You got a problem with that?” Race didn’t know why he was so angry. But the crowd was growing angrier, too, and they became a blur on the edges of his vision, getting louder and louder until it became a roar. A quick glance around, and Spot, still nowhere to be seen, must have been swallowed by the throng.

A loud bang quieted the crowd in an instant, thousands of people falling silent. In that moment, and only for that moment, the world was quiet. Nobody spoke. Race didn’t even breathe.

Until the screams began.

Then he began to breathe too much, chest heaving as his head whipped around. People everywhere were screaming. Everyone began to stampede towards Race, trying to get away from whoever had the gun.

“Spot!” he shouted, beginning to feel desperate. “Spot!”

He realized as he ran that there had, indeed, been a gunshot. The only question now: who was the bullet’s unlucky recipient?

Pushing his way through person after person, Race saw a shape on the ground. And though he saw it from behind a million moving feet, it was vaguely recognizable.

_No._

The shape groaned as the last few people left the square in which the protest had taken place.

“Spot!” Race’s voice was hoarse by now. “Spottie,” he said more quietly as he approached.

“Took you long enough,” Spot said, clenching his teeth after he tried to move. “Ow.”

“ _Shit_ , Spot,” Race hissed, pressing his hat to Spot’s shoulder. “That don’t look good.” His heart nearly pounded out of his chest when Spot groaned in pain for a second time.

“Really? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Shut it, wise guy.” Race scrambled to find a solution. Hospital? Too expensive. Apothecary? Too risky. As he began to lose hope, a name poked at the corner of his mind. “I know where I can take you,” he told him, “but you have to stand up.”

“Okay.” Clutching Race’s arm, Spot eased himself to his feet in the empty square, breathing quickly and sharply as he rose. “Jesus _fucking—”_

“—see? Not so bad,” Race tried to reassure him. “Don’t move your shoulder while you’re walkin’. We need to get to a guy I know, he’ll patch you up just fine.”

“No money,” Spot grunted as they walked.

“I’m calling in a favour.”

Though it was only a block, the walk felt like an eternity, Race’s arm around Spot’s good side as they tried their best to keep the blood from flowing. Spot barely spoke, but this time he had a good reason – he’d just been shot, after all.

The nice part of Manhattan was not a place Race frequented often. People there bought their newspapers from clean, respectable stands instead of the dirty, loud newsboys. Tall apartment buildings towered over the streets, windows large and spaced out; that meant larger apartments, or so Race hypothesized. High-fashion ladies stood clustered on street corners, parasols making them look like a bouquet of lacy flowers, and gentlemen smoked cigars in swanky restaurants. God, how Race wanted a smoke right then. But another groan of pain from Spot snapped him out of it.

“Where are we going?”

“Darcy’s.”

“Darcy who?”

“I dunno, Darcy. Rich fella who’s in school to be a doctor. He was at the strike, you’d have seen him,” Race said. “Tall guy, dark hair, glasses?”

“Mm.”

Race wondered if perhaps conversation was not the best way to pass time right then. Luckily, Darcy’s apartment was on the first floor. Race knocked quickly, keeping his other arm around Spot to support him. A moment of silence made him worry Darcy wasn’t home. But to his relief, the oaken door swung open.

“Hello, can I—” Darcy stopped short when he saw Spot. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah, uh, hey, Darce,” Race said quickly, “Spot here’s been shot. I was wondering if you could—”

“Say no more, Anthony,” Darcy cut him off, proper accent ever prominent. “I have a kit in the kitchen.”

“Anthony?” Spot laughed as Darcy took him out of Race’s hands, “ _Anthony?_ ”

Sometime later, Spot lay asleep on Darcy’s spare bed, clean white bandages wrapped around his shoulder. His clothes were clean, too, and though they were probably the most inexpensive thing Darcy owned, it was still nicer than anything Race had ever worn. Darcy had gone out to get painkillers, so Race sat by Spot’s bedside, reading a book he’d found on the shelf.

He couldn’t take in any of the words his eyes read, because he kept compulsively counting Spot’s breathing to make sure he kept going. 

_In, two, three._

_Out, two, three._

_In, two, three._

_Out, two, three._

_In, two_ —

“Racer?”

Spot’s voice interrupted Race’s counting.

“Hey, Spottie,” Race sighed, shutting his book. A wave of relief swept through him, almost knocking him off his feet. “How you feeling?”

“How do you think?” Spot chuckled. Race raised an eyebrow. “Fine, I’m fine, really.”

“You sure?”

“God, _Anthony_ , don’t be so nosy,” he teased, tossing a pillow at Race. Catching it, Race set it on the ground and crossed his legs.

“You came to get me,” Spot said quietly after a moment, teasing nature gone and replaced with something different. “In the square.”

“Wh—of course I did.”

“Race, seeing you come through that crowd…” Spot paused. “God, it felt like bein’ saved. I was down and out, and there you were. An angel come to save me.”

Race didn’t know how to reply, or even if he was _supposed_ to reply.

“And you… I don’t even know what I’m sayin’,” he admitted.

“If the roles were switched,” Race said, “I’d feel the same way.”

Before Spot could say anything, the door clicked open, and Darcy came in and ushered Race out. “Got to let him sleep,” he told him.

A bar of light from the window next to the bed lay across Spot’s face, golden light on his skin. Late afternoon shadows fell on the rest of his face. Race glanced over his shoulder on the way out the door, and Spot smiled at him. The smile was like coffee – it kept Race going for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did you think? what will happen next? (p.s. you would have seen this coming if you listened to the playlist! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1vSOo5mrLyOcR98aYXcBu7?si=IjfAo6HwTCyJIccuX1FZPQ)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment below and find me on tumblr @panicky-pancakes.


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